Order Please?
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: As a Section Three agent, one needs to be flexible, but even a waiter has his limits - a Working Stiffs story.


When people think of working as an agent for an international organization, they get this sort of jacked-up image in their minds of potted palms, drugged drinks, and Spy vs. Spy sort of escapades. At least I did and those thoughts stayed with me as I struggled my way through Survival School. The guy who runs that place has serious mental problems, but he's very good at what he does, namely separating the wheat from the chaff. I went in thinking I was hot stuff and he knocked me down a few pegs. So much so that when I finally managed to graduate, it wasn't as a Section Two, but rather as a Section Three.

Now, don't get me wrong. We are plenty tough and plenty worthy of just as much praise as those hotdog agents are, but they are the ones who get all the glory. Of course, they are also usually the ones who get shot and stabbed and poisoned and, well, you get my drift. We see plenty of action, but it's usually the kind we can walk away from, unscathed, at the end of the day.

Now, within Section Three, there are various jobs and covers we're assigned as a matter of course. We are there to protect our fellow employees and through a course of events that are still not really clear to me – I do believe hard liquor was involved at one point – I ended up working as a waiter in the Masque Club. I know what you're thinking and don't, I get to keep my tips on top of my salary, so I'm sitting pretty. I bring in twice what the head of Section Two does. Plus I love working there; it's fast paced, the entertainment is usually first rate and the nights are never the same.

Take for example the shenanigans that went on just a while ago.

I was in the locker room, gearing up after a satisfying workout.

"No, I won't do it!" Illya Kuryakin came in and I could tell in a split second that the safest spot in the room was probably not in the room at all. He was furious and you only need to see him like that once in your life to never want to see it again. He yanked off his jacket and tossed in onto the bench.

"I never figured you for a welsher, Kuryakin." His partner and the aforementioned head of Section Two, Napoleon Solo, was hot on his heels. "A bet is a bet. You told me to name my price! Well, I did!"

"I would rather have sex with…" That's when the two realized they weren't alone and I sort of weakly waved to them. His voice dropped. "I would rather have oral sex with a piranha than spend one moment with that viper!" Both Solo's and my hands moved to protect our valuables at the rather vivid image he painted as he continued to change from street to work out clothes.

"It's just dinner and dancing." Solo glanced over at me. "At the Masque Club. You'll be among friends."

"She's the enemy, Napoleon. Have you forgotten that little point?'

"Of course not, but think about it, Illya. It's best to hold your friends close... "

"And your enemies closer. I know the saying, Napoleon. Absolutely not!" He stormed out, heading into the gym and I was starting to feel bad for the punching bag.

"Mr. Lindy, are you working tonight?" Solo asked after a minute.

"Yes sir, I am." I'm polite because I still have my heart set on Section Two someday.

"Keep an eye on him tonight."

"I'm fairly sure Mr. Kuryakin can take care of himself, sir."

"He's not the one I'm worried about…"

So, I was not surprised to see Kuryakin suddenly wander into the Masque Club that night, decked out in a tux with this blonde-haired beauty on his arm. I don't know what kind of bet Kuryakin lost to Solo, but he was not happy. She was giving the place a casual once over, but you could see in her eyes that there's nothing causal about it. And I recognized her… Angelique something, a THRUSH agent. Now I understood Kuryakin's concern.

The maitre'd started to lead them to a table in the center of room and Kuryakin shook his head, slowly, just once and glanced towards the private booth in the back of the room. This would keep them away from the various other UNCLE personnel dining, including the Section Ones. Apparently he was willing to compromise his own reputation, but not the lives of his superiors. I slotted that info away for later.

Jim escorted them to a small cozy curtain-enclosed booth and I was right behind him, ready with the menus and for their drink orders.

"_Que voulez-vous, Angelique? Le champagne ?"_

"_Pour les démarreurs."_

My French isn't good, but I could understand this even without Kuryakin translating. He glanced at me, I nodded and went off to get the champagne.

As I approached, I could hear them exchanging barbs, still in French, although I have to confess Kuryakin's accent is better than hers. Hell, mine's better than hers and I grew up in Hoboken.

Now, there are some folks who think Kuryakin lacks in the social graces, but anyone who knows agents would know that's just a ruse. We are trained how to handle ourselves in every situation and that includes at a nice restaurant or important social gathering. Kuryakin handled the menu like a pro, he started with caviar, followed by mussels for her, beef marrow in cream for him. Onion soup and a double consommé, followed by roasted lamb for two and a variety of sides. I'll give you this, the man can eat.

I was about to deliver the salad course when something made me pause. Now, I don't judge people… well, I try not to judge people, but it'd been pretty clear through most of the evening that Kuryakin wasn't here because he wanted to be, so when I glanced in through a side gap of the curtain and saw the two of them in what could only be described as a pretty intimate lip lock, well, I was stunned.

I pulled back and retreated a step. Those two had been at each other's throats all night and then I started to play back some of the comments and I wonder if Shakespeare had it right all long. Maybe the lady, well, guy, in this case, was protesting just a bit too much.

"I'll be right with you, ma'am." I said loudly enough for the surrounding tables to hear and I garner some mighty strange looks, but when I pulled the curtain back, both parties were on their respective sides of the table, with nary a hair out of place. Well, the chick, she sort of had a funny look in her eyes, but Kuryakin was as cool as silk on a summer morning.

"Darling, I'm rather full yet. Do you think we could dance?" Angelique had abandoned the French when it became apparent that Kuryakin was neither intimidated nor impressed with her command of the language, but he did post grad work at the Sorbonne, why would he be?

Kuryakin made a face, but slid out and offered her his hand. They moved to the dance floor and started to move to the music. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Angelique's hand drifted down to rest square on Kuryakin's ass. He grabbed her hand and brought it back up. A minute later, it was back down there. He moved it again, but by the third time, he apparently gave up. By the time the dance ends, I could tell there was some serious body language talking between the two, but the rest of the evening finished quietly enough. And Kuryakin is a good tipper, not like some of his other fellow agents.

The next afternoon, I was in the elevator riding down to the gym, minding my own business when the doors opened and Solo and Kuryakin got in.

I exchanged a knowing glance with Kuryakin. No one looks that smug without having had some major sex the night before. His partner, well, it's one of the few times I've ever really seen Solo flustered.

"I'm not asking for details, Illya…"

"Yes, Napoleon, you are and it's none of your business. I upheld my end of our bargain. We are finished with this."

The elevator glided to a stop and I stepped out, keeping my grin to myself. Kuryakin was yanking his partner's chain big time.

"I don't need to know specifics; I just want to know how Angelique found out about your tattoo…"

And the doors closed. I never did find out about Kuryakin's tattoo, but that's okay. I got a pretty vivid imagination and plenty of time to think about it…


End file.
